


To Make You Smile

by sambharsobs



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambharsobs/pseuds/sambharsobs
Summary: A collection of F/F pairings and prompts from Twitter.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Bernadetta von Varley, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Constance von Nuvelle, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Marianne von Edmund/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	1. Marianne/Hilda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: planning to take a trip, for quorn

Hilda broaches the topic in the evening, as Marianne undoes her braids at the vanity.

“Why don’t we take a trip somewhere?” she asks from the bed, rolling onto her stomach. “It’s been so long since we did anything exciting, I’m getting bored.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Hilda knows it’s one where Marianne is collecting her words, because her pretty lips are pursed together in thought. If Hilda is really quiet, she swears she could hear the gears grinding in her girlfriend’s pretty head.

“Where would we go?” she says, at last. “Many places haven’t opened up because it’s not the season yet.”

“That’s exactly why we should go. Then we’d be alone to do as we pleased,” says Hilda, throwing a naughty wink at the vision of Marianne in the mirror. From the bed, Hilda can see the gentle dusting of pink on Marianne’s face, and her grin widens. “Getting ideas, Mari?” she teases.

Marianne’s head drops, but Hilda can hear the amusement in her voice when she says, “You seem to be the one with all the ideas tonight, my love.”

Ugh, Marianne and her adorable nicknames. It makes Hilda’s insides get all mushy and sappy and gross. Add that to the fact she’s taking off the earrings Hilda made for her? Puke, but also, like, Hilda wants to kiss her.

“Which I can demonstrate to you, if you’ll come to bed.”

“In a moment,” smiles Marianne, reaching behind her neck to undo the clasp of a necklace.

When she fumbles for a moment too long, Hilda slides out of the warm sheets and runs barefoot across the cold floor. Marianne smiles at her gratefully through the mirror when the necklace comes off.

“You know,” drawls Hilda, climbing onto the long stool Marianne is sitting on, one knee on each side of the taller woman, “the markets in Derdriu would have some pretty gemstones.” She drapes her arms around Marianne’s shoulders.

All attempts to prepare for bed discarded, Marianne holds her wrists closer and leans back with a hum. Hilda tries to hold back a grin, and fails, instead pressing a kiss onto the top of her head.

“You get even more pretty jewellery by yours truly, and I get my vacation. It’s a win all around.”

“Yes,” smiles Marianne. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you miss Claude.”

Hilda shoots an unamused expression at the mirror. The delighted sound that tickles her ears is always welcome, but she doesn’t appreciate how Marianne has come to see so clearly through her façade. She’s not wrong – it’s been a long time since Claude, ah, _joined them for the evening_ – but Hilda’s not admitting that out loud, not unless there’s a dagger against her throat.

“I do not miss him,” she sniffs. “And I don’t appreciate you assuming how I feel.”

Still smiling, Marianne whispers, “I’m sorry.”

There used to be a time where Marianne would apologize to the ground for all of her perceived mistakes and Hilda’s playfully ingenuous statements, but that time is long past. Now, it’s Marianne’s apologies which have meanings hidden behind them, because of their years-old, strict agreement.

“I believe that apology warrants the usual fee,” smiles Hilda.

Marianne tilts her head up to look at her directly at last, and presses their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss. Hilda tastes lavender and sweet berries, and deepens the kiss. Marianne hums a laugh against her lips but lets her, and Hilda is happy to get what she wants, as usual.

When they part, there is a bashful, glowing smile on Marianne’s face, and Hilda can feel her chest swell. She really is the luckiest girl to be able to see this adorable sight every morning and every day and every night, and – if the trip goes successfully and Marianne says yes to the ring stashed away in Hilda’s winter socks drawer – every minute for the rest of their lives.

Listen, all this love stuff is _supposed_ to be mushy and sappy and gross, okay?

“Maybe we should go to Gloucester,” says Marianne, suddenly.

“Ew, Lorenz is there, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/sadsambharsobs)


	2. Edelgard/Bernadetta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: el trying to understand bernie's fascination with plants, for sev

The castle at Enbarr has a massive greenhouse, filled with stems and leaves and petals of all variants. Sunlight beams through the glass walls and floods the room with a gentle, golden glow. The sweet smell of wet soil and leaves fill Edelgard’s senses, and the tight knot between her shoulders eases.

It’s been present along her back much before she tipped Fodlan into war six years ago, formed from the burdens of her uncle and the scope of her own ambition.

She ignores it, and says, “What must we do, Bernadetta?”

There’s a silence, and Edelgard waits. Finally, “A-Are you sure, Lady Edelgard? Gardening is s-something that the royalty d-don’t exactly…ah! Th-That’s not to say that I’m telling you wh-what to do, you’re f-free to—”

“At ease, Bernadetta,” interjects Edelgard, before the situation gets out of hand. “I know that it is strange for the Emperor to practise such things, but I am not here in an official capacity. I simply wish to...” _how to say this,_ “…spend time with a dear friend.”

“O-Oh,” breathes Bernadetta. Then, under her breath, “O-Okay. I can do that. You got this, Bernie.”

 _Indeed_ , thinks Edelgard fondly.

“S-So this is what I’m trying to plant t-today,” says Bernadetta, showing the pouch of seeds in her hands. “These are s-seeds for pitcher plants. They’re very hardy plants,” says Bernadetta, face easing into a soft, small smile. Edelgard isn’t privy to this sweet expression on her often, and she can feel her cheeks rise.

“Don’t these plants eat…flies?”

“They do,” she says, still smiling. “They’re carnivorous plants, so they eat small bugs.”

“Interesting,” says Edelgard, for lack of something better to say. “How must we proceed then, Bernadetta?”

Edelgard hides a smile as the purple-haired archer confidently pours soil to cover the tray. Slender fingers, which would tremble for most things, are steady as they pat down the top and sprinkle some dead leaves. At Bernadetta’s instruction, she begins mixing the soil with a small hand-rake.

The way the soil tumbles and crumbles into the mulch is oddly satisfying, and the broad, gentle sweeps of the rake is calming in itself. They are kneeling side-by-side, working smoothly together. The knot in Edelgard’s back eases further, and she continues the motions, letting out a soft sigh.

“I understand why you enjoy this now. It is very calming.”

“Y-Yeah,” says Bernadetta, joining in with her own rake, drawing long ridges on the top part of the soil. “I-I… Wh-When I used to live with my father, I used to till the pots in my room. It helps, e-especially when p-people are shouting.”

Edelgard hums a soft sound of agreement, but the gentleness in her tone does not reflect the anger that spikes through her chest. Count Varley is a shameful man on many accounts, but Bernadetta’s casual admission of his actions makes him absolutely abhorrent.

“I-It’s like…”

Edelgard has always been a patient woman, so she waits.

“…sometimes, there’s nothing you can do about things,” she breathes, talking more to the soil than to Edelgard. “Some things are just awful and they just happen, and you can’t stop them.”

The flashbacks are familiar to her now, sights and sounds of a cold, dark dungeon and soft, tired pleading.

“B-But that d-doesn’t mean you can’t make the best of what you have. I-I had a plant, in my room, and it gave me company. S-So I grew more, and then I had a lot of friends around me.”

It has always taken her breath away, when she remembers how her Black Eagles stood by her even after the mask fell off.

Bernadetta continues talking to the soil, but her chin has tilted towards Edelgard, and she can see the soft smile on her face better.

“Some friends are stubborn. Some friends are kind. Some of them are s-scary,” she says, and Edelgard smiles at the idea of a pitch-black flower that smells faintly of blood. “And then…there are some friends who are really special.”

There’s a moment of stillness in the greenhouse.

“They taught me how to be brave, and how to be strong. They looked really scary, but they were really sweet,” says Bernadetta, softly. “Just like the pitcher plant.”

Edelgard holds back an indignant huff.

“I wish,” continues Bernadetta, voice just a whisper, “that they stay with me for a long time.”

They are close enough, so Edelgard braves a hand to touch Bernadetta’s steady fingers.

When she doesn’t move away, she says, “Till the end of my days.”


	3. Marianne/Ingrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: i want a horse girl who go to the stables, and read her riding manual, for XFox_One

Animals are nice. Animals don’t get angry at her. Animals don’t know about the curse of her Crest.

Marianne reaches out to stroke Dorte’s mane, and the horse whinnies softly, leaning into her touch. He’s been very grumpy of late, demanding a lot of attention and time and treats, and Marianne wishes she could indulge him more than she does.

It’s a blessing, then, when she is assigned to stable duty every week. It’s not so much of a blessing when she finds out that she has a partner.

Marianne’s eyes slide to the side to catch a wild mop of untamed blonde hair shuffling about in Dorte’s stall. The Faerghus noble is bent over, shovelling out the old hay with vigorous intensity, sweat dripping down a high collar. The girl straightens and leans on the shovel, and green eyes catch hers.

Marianne looks away as fast as she can.

It’s been three weeks since they’ve been on stable duty together, and aside from a polite, formal introduction, Ingrid hasn’t said anything to her. Marianne isn’t sure if she should be relieved or worried, so she settles for the latter, as usual.

When Ingrid is nearly done, Marianne whispers to Dorte,”Stay put, please. Be patient,” she pleads, when he anxiously nuzzles her skirt, “I’ll be right back.”

There’s an easy efficiency with which Ingrid brings the buckets of water, one in each hand, and places it on the floor with nary a splash. If Marianne was in charge of that, she would have definitely tripped and fallen, as she has in the past. Armed with mops, they get to cleaning the floor.

Soon enough, the stall is sparkling clean, and Marianne takes a step to Dorte, who is getting antsy in her absence—

Marianne slips, and she closes her eyes as the ground rushes to meet her. She’s done it again, she’s messed things up, because she’s cursed and the Goddess does not allow beasts like her to succeed. She waits for the dull ache that she deserves.

But it never comes, and all she feels are strong arms around her. Marianne opens her eyes to catch clear green ones, and Ingrid is close.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-Yes,” she says, and then, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

But the self-loathing has already begun bubbling in the bottom of her stomach, bitter and acidic.

“I’m s-sorry for being a burden,” she whispers. “I’m sure you d-don’t want to be partnered with me.”

“Did I ever say that?” asks Ingrid, voice sharp.

Marianne recoils instantly, and says again, “I-I’m sorry.” She stumbles out of Ingrid’s arms to leave.

“Wait,” says Ingrid, quickly. She holds the stable door closed, preventing her escape.

Marianne hugs herself tightly, as a dreadful silence settles in. Ingrid is strong and efficient and hardworking. Marianne isn’t any of those things, and she doesn’t know why Ingrid is still partnered with her. Marianne deserves to suffer alone, not bring others down with her.

Abruptly, Ingrid says, “What do they say?”

“Huh?” Marianne looks up, surprised.

Ingrid shuffles awkwardly, scratching the back of her head. “The, um, horses. I hear you talking to them. What do they say?”

Marianne is quiet for a moment. Then she drops her head and whispers, “They don’t like the new hay very much.”

“Oh?”

“It’s itchy.”

“Ah. We’ll have to tell the Professor that, then.”

A silence.

“See, Marianne? If it wasn’t for you, we would have never known that.”

Ingrid’s tone is gentle.

“And only the Goddess knows what kind of temper-tantrum Dorte would have thrown if the hay wasn’t just perfect,” she snorts.

Dorte harrumphs, “We need some standards. This isn’t a kennel.”

“Yes, yes,” calls Ingrid, fondly. “You’re the king of this stable and we do as you please. I know.”

Marianne giggles at the exchange, and catches the corner of Ingrid’s bright smile.


	4. Edelgard/Constance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: constance not getting the hints that edelgard is in love with her, constantly misunderstanding her love signals as "friendship", for kai

It had started out with flowers.

Roses are, typically, used to show romantic feelings. Well, Dorothea had said so, anyway. Edelgard would much rather receive something practical, like a functional quill or writing-stand. But most of romance lies in the theatricality of it all, so she gets Constance a bouquet of the best blooms from the palace.

Constance turns the petals to a deep navy blue, dotted with speckles of silver. Blooms now resembling the night sky, and Constance launches herself into a two-hour speech on the magic that caused the transformation.

Bernadetta had suggested gifting a poem. Edelgard is used to rousing and rallying soldiers with her words, so the softer, delicate lyrics of a sonnet seem foreign in her axe-weathered hands. But she pens a simple bit of literature, an easy meter and rhyme on Constance’s perseverance and skill, and gifts it to Constance when she visits to discuss irrigation methods in Hyrm.

The mage proceeds to conduct an impromptu spoken word session in the middle of the castle’s vast gardens. Edelgard has never heard so many comparisons of herself to the swift determination of the eagle, and as she tries to hide the heat rushing to her face, it was too late to stop Constance, now waxing poetic on how the Nuvelle bloodline will follow in suit.

Hubert suggested a dagger. She vetos. Petra also suggested a dagger, in a letter from Brigid. She ignores it. When Caspar suggests a dagger, Edelgard is ready to throw the nearest vase in frustration.

Edelgard’s father had been a romantic man, and for whatever mistakes he had made, it is one thing she wishes to carry forward. So she prepares a gondola at the start of the canal that runs through Enbarr, and invites Constance to join her for the evening.

She brushes off the attender’s offer to row for them, and takes the oar in her strong hands. Constance sits at the opposite end of the gondola, the silver moonbeams dancing off her golden, sunbeam-coloured hair.

If this attempt also fails, she’s going to write that down, followed by something crass Linhardt had suggested she say, and send it to Constance.

Rippling like the smoothest silk, the water sloshes by their gondola as Edelgard rows, steady and sure. Constance peers over the lip of the boat, and smiles at her watery reflection.

“Allow me to show you something, Your Majesty.”

“Constance,” she sighs. “How many times do I need to tell you that you can simply call me by my name?”

“Ah, yes,” says Constance, suddenly flustered. “E-Edelgard.”

Quickly, she whips her gaze back to the water, and dips three fingers into it. Purple and pink sparks soon emerge from her fingertips, and then yellow and silver, and then deep blue and cyan, and their gondola is surrounded by a starry collection of magical lights.

Edelgard understands the importance of theatricality in romance, when she notices the flicker of the lights across Constance’s delighted expression.

“Is it not simply beautiful? Behold, the skill and sorcery of the Nuvelle bloodline!”

As Constance laughs triumphantly, Edelgard holds back the desire to snap the oar into two.

“That being said,” she says, trying to compose herself, “I would much rather behold your beauty, and be bewitched by it.”

Constance stares at her, blue eyes wide and reflecting the rainbow of colours in the water.

“I-Is that so? But I am nothing in comparison to your beauty and grace, Your Majes—”

“Constance! I am trying to woo you!”

There’s a silence as her cry echoes over the waves.

“Y-You…what?”

“I have been trying to win your favour for many months now,” says Edelgard, and her face feels like a furnace. “You have been oblivious to my advances, and I thought drastic measures would make my position clear. Apparently, that is not the case.”

“S-So….the roses…and the poetry…”

“Yes,” says Edelgard, for lack of anything better to say.

“O-Oh,” breathes Constance. “That was not a sign of your friendship?”

For all her ‘Nuvelle wit and knowledge’, Constance was positively dense.

“R-Right,” squeaks Constance under her stern gaze. “Far from platonic, n-noted.”

"Well?" says Edelgard, when the silence stretches too long for her comfort. "Does that please you?"

A beat, and then Constance breathes, soft enough to get lost with the sloshing of the waves, “I would like that very much, Edelgard.”

Something heady and strong buzzes along Edelgard’s legs and settles as a light, intoxicating cloud in her chest. She attempts to quell it, but as Constance shyly meets her eyes from under her eyelashes, Edelgard can feel the stretch of her smile.

The lights in the sky and in the water are now somehow brighter, and Edelgard has to admit, it’s all quite romantic.


	5. Annette/Ingrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: annette sees ingrid with her short cut and has a gay panic as well as coming to the realization of why she very much did not like make up, for gray

Seated on the steps outside her old dorm room, Annette looks up at the star-studded sky.

For someone who hates change, she seems to be accepting the situation quite readily – the professor was back from the dead, all her former classmates were alive and so different, and now they were going to try to change the tides of this five-year-long war.

Annette wishes that the reason she hasn’t had a panic attack yet is because she’s gotten stronger over the years, but she knows the truth. Their almost-impossible plan hasn’t sunk in yet, and that’s because her mind is focused on something else – or rather, _someone_ else.

Footsteps snap her out of her thoughts, and she whips around to see Felix and Ingrid walking back from the training grounds, armed with wooden weapons.

When Annette spots bright, hopeful green eyes, she tries to quell the warmth rushing across her face.

See, the problem wasn’t impending doom waiting for her on the battlefield, but the dryness in her throat at the sight of Ingrid’s shirt clinging to her with sweat, and the way her short hair frames her sharp jawline and high cheekbones so beautifully—no. So _handsomely_.

It’s simply unfair how good Ingrid looks.

Annette remembers brushing blush over those high cheekbones and dabbing foundation across that jawline, back when things weren’t all terrible and her main concern was looking good for the ball. Ingrid had been quiet and uncomfortable and small in the dress Annette had squeezed her into.

Now – and Annette still thinks it’s a trick of the light – her tunic is the one squeezing her chest tightly, shaping it into a straight, hard plane that Annette wants desperately to climb.

Someone clears their throat, and Annette looks up to see Ingrid looming above her. She gestures to the spot next to Annette on the step and says, “May I join you?”

Wordlessly, Annette shifts over, just a little, to make room. Ingrid lowers herself to sit beside her, and Annette tries very hard not to think of the warmth of her knee touching her thigh.

In the silence that stretches, Annette looks back at the stars, anywhere but the person beside her. Ingrid, for her part, is silent as well, but from the corner of her eye, Annette can see the concerned looks coming her way.

Ingrid clears her throat awkwardly, and says, “Have I done something to upset you, Annette?”

 _Yes, you have._ “No, you haven’t.”

A beat, where she can feel Ingrid struggle. Annette lets her, petty.

“I feel as though you have been avoiding me,” tries Ingrid, again. “If it is merely because of our differing duties, then I can understand, but if it is something else…”

Annette doesn’t say anything.

“Annette,” sighs Ingrid. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I just think it’s funny how—”

Ingrid sighs, and Annette shoots her a deathly glare. Ingrid immediately rearranges her expression into something more neutral.

She sniffs, and resumes, “I just think… I mean, I don’t mean this in any way,” she says, waving away the concerns that Ingrid hasn’t raised yet, “but, like, you look so different. Good different! It’s not bad at all. In fact,” and she laughs, nervous and high-pitched, “you look great. Really great. I mean, we read about knights in battle and all of that stuff but you really look it now, you know? With the armour and the tunic and…” Annette mimes the steel plates Ingrid wears on her calves, “…and stuff,” she finishes, lamely.

There’s a silence following her rambling outburst, where Ingrid’s brain loudly tries to process the information dumped before her.

“So…” she tries. “You’re upset at me because of my armour?”

“No,” snaps Annette. “Not because of—why would I be angry at your armour? It keeps you safe!”

“I don’t know?” Ingrid’s eyes are round and wide, hands raised in a wary gesture. “You’ve just…” And her body slumps, defeated. “You haven’t been meeting my eye, this last week. If it’s because I haven’t been writing to you, it’s not because I didn’t want to, but that I simply did not have the time.”

“Oh,” says Annette, feeling a little more than guilty. “Ingrid, no, it’s not that. It’s just…” Annette sighs. “You’ve changed.”

Ingrid looks up, eyes wide, and then says, a little sadly, “We all have, Annette.”

Not quite, thinks Annette. The war has made Dorothea more morose, Caspar more cautious, and Felix more on edge. Ingrid, on the other hand, sparkles when she swoops into battle, beams when she laughs, and dazzles when she commands her troops. She’s not the stiff, stilted girl who flinched away from Annette’s make-up brushes five years ago.

“That’s not what I mean,” says Annette, voice small. “It’s like…you’re so bright, I can’t look at you, sometimes.”

The admission makes her throat catch and her body explode in warmth. Annette guides her trembling fingertips to trace the pattern of the wood between them, too afraid to look up. She could reach out and touch the ends of Ingrid’s hair, brush them away from her handsome face and trail along her firm jaw before—

“…perhaps,” says Ingrid, her voice deliciously rough and low, “I could do something about that.”

Slowly, so that she’s sure she’s hearing this properly, Annette looks up. Ingrid is looking at her with an intensity that makes her ache. “What?” she asks, because she needs to be absolutely clear about this. Is Ingrid Brandl Galatea telling her that she can jump her bone—

“I could avoid wearing my armour around you,” says Ingrid. “I understand that the glare during the day can be blinding.”

Annette looks at the wide eyes looking back at her. Then Ingrid giggles – actually giggles, like she did when they were in school – and Annette is giggling with her, building and building until they’re crying with laughter and clutching their aching stomachs.

“That was t-terrible,” sniffs Annette, swatting her shoulder.

Ingrid grins, warm and open and free, and Annette leans against Ingrid’s body, warm and open and free.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/sadsambharsobs)


End file.
